


Say The Word

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Read at Own Risk, Shooting, because this is going to hurt, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is involved in a mass shooting in the heart of London and the fallout is not pretty. . Though he walked away relatively unscathed,  the emotional wounds will not heal so easily. Mycroft will be there to help him through what will be a long and painful journey for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

  
The moment Greg Lestrade sets foot in his Central London townhouse, it feels as though the barricades he’d built up to get him through this day have collapsed, and as though he might collapse along with them, too. Now, he considers himself a good man, honest- noble even, but today he isn’t so sure. His phone shines like a beacon in the night, a subtle blue LED flash tells him the British Government (who was also his husband of three years) had once again seen and heard all.

Greg picks up the work issue phone, fancier than he’d have liked, with its touch screen and myriad of gadgets, and opens the message.

  
**HOLMES, MYC**

_**You need only say the word, and I’ll be there. MH** _

  
How could Greg have expected any less? He looks down at his shirt, sees the blood (which is not just his own) and the dirt, and cringes at the way it clings to his skin, itching enough to make him want to claw his skin right off. The bullet only grazed him, but still it bled like no one’s business, but still, it’s worse than it looks. He should say the word, he knows that right now what he needs is Mycroft, and it’s all he ever needs. Actually, that’s a lie- he’d quite like some scotch too.

  
He’s fine.

 

It’s not like he lost three men today.

 

Or watched a heavily pregnant woman bleed out and die in front of him.

 

It’s not like he failed to save the life of a six year old either.

 

Five lives lost, plus one if you count the pregnant woman’s child. And he’s fine. Absolutely fine. He’s not hiding in his bed, like a child afraid of thunder, and he’s not hyperventilating either, he can breathe just fine thank you very much. _The word_ lingers in the back of his head, tossing and turning like a ship in rough waters.

Greg lifts his phone up once more, holds it lightly between his fingertips as he looks around the room. Mycroft’s side of the bed is still perfectly made, and thankfully he’s only smearing old blood onto his own pillow, though the sheets are somewhat ruined. His husband can’t be far away, really. A mass shooting would have left the diplomat busy enough, but since their marriage, Greg is proud to say that his husband, his wonderful, caring, everything he doesn’t deserve husband has made his personal life a much higher priority.

So Greg opens the messaging application on his too fancy phone, and his finger shakes and he nearly drops the phone on his face as he types the message he knows that Mycroft is waiting to hear.

**Please come home, I need you. GL**

  
’There, it’s done,’ Greg thinks to himself, before aimlessly putting the phone down wherever it lands, somewhere on Myc’s side of their very large, very comfortable bed. He could stay here forever, he muses.

 

But then.

 

There is panic clawing, a painful, tight knot in his chest forms and once again he finds himself unable to breathe. Tears still yet unshed prickle and pull at the backs of his eyes, and he hates this, hates everything. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t even speak and then—

 

 

Silence.

 

 

Strong arms encircle him, hold him close and keep him safe. Mycroft is home where he should be, where Greg needs him and finally it’s alright. The Detective Inspector lets out what can only be described as a wail and sobs, sobs until there’s quite literally no tears left in him.

The last time that Mycroft had seen Greg cry, properly cry, had been when Greg’s mother had died, and that was nearly five years ago, and though it’s not unexpected or unwelcome, it’s certainly not easy to watch.Mycroft holds his weeping husband, knowing that there is likely nothing that he can say, and very possibly nothing that he can do either. “It’s alright, Gregory. It’s over now.” Mycroft whispers into Gregory’s blood matted hair. He needs to get his husband into a hot shower, and dress his injuries and make sure he’s going to be okay, but right now he doubts the man’s ability to even walk the eight paces across the bedroom to their bathroom.

After god knows how long, Greg falls silent. There are no more tears, only slight hiccups every now and then. Mycroft knows beyond a doubt, that this does not mean that Greg is okay, even if he’d like to believe it. It’s the calm before the inevitable storm, and Mycroft would very much like to get the caretaking out of the way before the storm rolls in and clouds gather over his already heartbroken husband.‘’I’m going to run the shower for you, I’ll not be long.’’ Mycroft tells Greg, easing out of his vicelike grip. He lays the man down gently, tucking the blanket around him just to be sure, before kissing his head sweetly and heading into the bathroom.

“Mmm.” Greg murmurs a pitiful response, but he just can’t bring himself to say anything more, because there is nothing more to say, nothing he can do to change the day’s events, nothing he can say that won’t end in him crying hysterically once more. He’s got his back to the door, and though he can’t watch, he listens intently to Mycroft’s footsteps against the carpeted floor. He listens as he sound changes as his husband’s fancy leather dress shoes hit Italian ceramic tiles, listens as his wedding band clinks lightly against the stainless steel tap. Greg listens as the water runs, and by the sound of it, the pressure is hard enough to blow him away.

“Come on, dear.” A far away voice calls from the bathroom, over the whoosh of the water. Mycroft walks back to the bed and helps Greg sit back up, sighing lightly as the other man winces and groans, and holds the wound on his stomach tenderly.

“Day from hell.” Greg murmurs half-jokingly, as Mycroft just about carries him into their en suite, and eases him into the bathroom and sets him down on the closed toilet seat lid. Deft fingers undo his buttons, and his shirt is gently stripped away, carefully easing the bloodstained fabric from Greg’s muscular chest. The amount of blood on his shirt is frightening, but most of it isn’t even his, which is both a very good thing, and absolutely awful at the same time.

He will likely receive bravery medals, his name will be in the papers, people will know what he did. But in his own mind, he is simply the man who failed to save six lives, he may be brave but he is not a hero. He’ll never tell Mycroft, but of course he’ll know, there will be reports and he can bet his life savings that they’ll be forwarded straight to Myc’s desk. But the words will never come out of his own mouth. He’s so lost in his tormented head that he almost doesn’t notice that Mycroft has stripped him down to his pants, and is on his knees before him, removing his shoes. “I’m fine, Myc.” Greg attempts, but he can’t say anything more than that, there’s a knot steadily forming in his throat and it’s enough to silence him.

“Yes, dear.” Mycroft says softly, and eases his definitely not fine husband up against the vanity so he can strip him of his boxers. The water is still running away, and though it’s not like they’re going to have issues paying a high water bill, Mycroft still doesn’t like to waste it. When he is sure that Greg isn’t going to fall over, or pass out, he takes off his own clothes extremely quickly and tries to block out the voice in his head that is telling him that even his socks cost sixty pounds, and that throwing them into the corner of the room is just not on.

“Pretty boy.” Greg grins sheepishly, but the light in his eyes is gone. God, his cock has never been so limp in his life, but you can’t blame a man for trying, can you?

“You’re hilarious.” Myc responds, his face deadpan, maybe a little sarcastic, and still Greg’s eyes are a deep, hollow void, and not the ice blue crystals they usually were.

“Killjoy. “Greg grumbles, gasping as Mycroft leads him to the water, eases him under the shower’s spray.

“Jesus, just—“he grunts, struggling for air as the water washes away the blood of all the people he’s failed. Mycoft just holds him tightly for a moment before he leans his man against the wall, hoping it’s enough to keep Greg upright long enough.

Their eyes meet for a moment, while Mycroft is sponging away a stubborn spot of blood on Greg’s shoulder, but neither of them say anything. The air is so thick with sadness and anxiety that you could cut through it with a knife, and Mycroft knows in that moment, that this day is going to continue to haunt them both for a very, very long time.

It hurts like hell, but eventually Greg is showered and the wound is cleaned, and they’re out of the shower. Mycroft wraps a fluffy, black towel around his husband’s shoulders and eases him onto the edge of the bath. He kisses Greg’s forehead gently as he wraps his own towel around himself, and sets about drying his husband because his hands look to be as heavy as lead.

Once they’re dry, Mycroft guides his husband to the armchair in the corner of their room, and tucks a blanket around him, towel and all as he changes the bed sheets and replaces the blankets and covers for clean ones. By the time he’s done, Greg looks as though he’s not far away from falling asleep sitting up.

“M’fine Myc,’ really.” Greg murmurs, in a worn voice, as though he can read Mycroft’s thoughts. He’s definitely not fine, and the look on his husband’s face tells Greg that it’s completely obvious. ‘’I’ll be fine.” He amends, and attempts a smile that struggles to reach his eyes.‘’I know, Gregory.” Mycroft assures him, before pulling Greg to his feet. He lays him down on the bed, still naked, and begins to dress his lower half, but leaves the bullet graze uncovered so that he can dress it properly.

Eventually, after what feels like an age, Greg is dressed in a thin white t-shirt, and a pair of tracksuit pants. Betadine is smothered over his injury, and Mycroft covers it neatly with gauze and seals it with tape, before lowering his shirt and tucking him into bed.

With Greg taken care of, Mycroft dresses quickly and crawls into bed beside him. He holds the broken man gently, being careful not to hurt him anymore than he is already, and kisses the back of his neck lightly. ‘’I love you very much, Gregory.” He says softly, but there is no response from Greg, who is already bordering, skating on fine line between sleep and wakefulness.

Greg has heard him, but sleep is tugging at him, and he’s too far gone to say anything himself.

If Mycroft is correct, it won’t be a peaceful night’s sleep, but he’ll be there to keep guard.

 

 

__


	2. Chapter 2

He takes his foot off of the accelerator, and pulls to one side of the dangerously busy motorway. He’s in no state to drive, never was but he’d insisted on it. He’s almost certain that Mycroft’s got his car bugged, or watched or something. Some form of surveillance at the very least, and so he can’t stay very long, lest a black car sneak up behind him.  Greg breathes, fails miserably. Try again, he tells himself, and he does. Long, gasping, drawn out breaths fill the suddenly very small cabin of his car and it’s all he can do not to cry. Going back to work was a bloody bad idea if ever there was one. When his vision clears, and he can breathe once more he takes his time pulling back into the traffic, letting too many people in, a silent excuse he makes for himself.  Eventually he makes it back onto the M25 in one piece, but only in the physical sense.

“Hey, listen. I’m leaving the rest of today up to you, I’ve gotta—something’s come up.” He stumbles through his words when Sally finally answers her phone.

‘’Everything okay, boss?” She asks concernedly, unable to mask her worry for a man who had insisted he work the day after getting caught in the cross fire of a mass shooting.

“Perfectly fine, everything’s fine. Don’t worry, there’s no need, it’s fine. It’s all fine, I’m fine.” He stammers, and hangs up quickly before he can cock it all up anymore.

**_ HOLMES, MYCROFT: _ **

**_Liar._ **

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Greg growls, frustrated that he’s unable to escape his husband for one bloody second before he’s all over him like a rash. But he loves Mycroft, bloody loves him, and right now all he wants is to get home, and crawl into their bed and pretend like none of this ever happened.

**_Yeah, alright. ­GL_ **

He gives in, replying and turning the way he came. Sally is capable, she’s trustworthy, she can baby sit the morons for the day. He tries to tell himself that it’s okay that he’s going home, that he should’ve never left for work in the first place, but it’s a hard line to try and ram through his own, thick skull.  

***

Central London comes into view after what feels like a lifetime of driving, but it’s really only been about half an hour. Driving halfway to Birmingham was probably the dumbest career move he’d ever made. He gets out of the car slowly, moving himself as carefully as he possibly can. The graze on his stomach hurts like all fucking hell and he winces as his legs reach solid ground, but it’s internalised and masked in perfect timing, because before he knows it, Mycroft is in front of him, hand outstretched. He wants to ignore it, keep up his masquerade of utter fineness but it’s pointless. Greg takes the hand waiting for him and pulls himself to his feet. The face Mycroft makes when he yowls in pain like an injured cat is heartbreaking.

“You were right to try and keep me home.” Greg smiles, hoping it might reassure the clearly very worried man in front of him.

“Of course I was, I usually am.” Mycroft returns Greg’s well intended sentiment in the best way he can, and guides him slowly up the front stairs. The doorman gives a knowing look and lets them through and eventually they’ve made it, crossing the threshold not a minute too soon. The DI stands in Mycroft’s embrace for a moment, hoping that the prickling in his eyes and the hammering of his heart in his chest isn’t as obvious as it feels.

“You are not.” Greg smirks half-heartedly, hoping it’s enough to throw his metaphorical bloodhound off the scent, but it’s very definitely not, and he knows it. He wraps his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist, allows himself to be dragged back to bed and within moments of his head hitting the pillow, he feels better. Not good, or okay, but much less like he’s going to have a grand scale freak out on one of England’s busiest motorways. There is a hand in his hair, (though there’s not a lot of that these days) and one in his own, and though it takes some effort, Greg rolls over to face his husband. It’s obvious that Mycroft is second guessing himself, he’s said before that he doesn’t know how to help, and making the marvellous man see that he actually _is helping_ is probably going to be something he’ll spend the rest of his bloody life doing.

***

As his husband sleeps, Mycroft busies himself. He cleans the bathroom from top to bottom, scrubs the kitchen somewhat excessively, and isn’t happy until he’s dusted and polished every surface in their townhouse. It takes him longer than it should have, though, because he can’t help but check in on Gregory every five minutes. When the flat almost literally sparkles, and the smell of bleach has seeped into his pores, Mycroft crawls back into bed beside his mostly still sleeping husband, and nestles himself into his arms.

“You smell like… cleaning.” Greg murmurs sleepily, not quite awake enough for complex sentences. He had never taken Mycroft for a stress cleaner, but when his mum died, the poor man spent most of his time with the spray and wipe.

“Is that a bad thing?” Mycroft asks, though he knows that currently, he smells like death in a hospital.

“Shush.” Greg returns, shifting over onto his side, wincing as he moves.

“How did you sleep?”  Mycroft questions as he nuzzles his head into the older man’s neck.

“Fine.” Greg replies, and it’s clearly a lie. Mycroft makes a face at him but doesn’t push it. “I’m fine, Mycroft, I’m fine.” He adds, though he knows that if he were to add it up, he’s probably said he was fine about ten times today, and words lose meaning after a while.

“You had a panic attack on the M25, you are not fine.” Mycroft says quietly, and Greg ignores me. “You’re not fine, Gregory. You were shot, you watched—“

“I bloody know what happened, you don’t need to fucking remind me!” Greg yells, booming voice suddenly filling the small room. He’s deathly silent for what feels like weeks, but after a moment he continues. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I’m fine, My. Leave it.”

“It’s alright, dear.” His startled husband assures him quietly, and indeed leaves it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, writers block + no internet or laptop = not good.

"You should talk to someone." John suggested cautiously over the rim of his mug. Greg made a sour face at him, and stared down into his own tea, the amber liquid seeming to mock him. "You can't shoulder all this on your own, Greg. Whether it be a professional, or a friend, you should talk to someone. You know I'm all ears, and Sherlock too, though he's less upfront about it." John continued and Greg tried to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking too hard to hold his mug without spilling.

  
"I'm fine, John. It was a rough case, nothing more." Greg sighed, feeling as though he was just repeating the same line over and over, telling everyone the same thing. "I don't need to talk to a professional, they already made me do a psych evaluation for work. I'm perfectly fine." He said, as he set his tea down and shoved his hands in his pockets. Mycroft was the only one who really understoon, who truly got it, and right now the only thing Greg wanted to do was run home and crawl under the bed covers. Hiding under the blankets and waiting for his husband to come home was a very tempting option, but he was trying to keep up the 'mentally sound' facade to some degree, he just had to keep telling himself that he was fine and eventually he would be. Fake it till you make it, or some bullshit like that, he figured.

  
"A rough case? Bloody hell Greg, that was a massacre. Even Sherlock came home and cried.. Shit, don't tell him I said that." John muttered, covering his mouth for a moment before reaching out across the table, laying a hand on Greg's trembling arm. The doctor suspected that he was having some kind of panic attack, but he knew the man well enough to know not to poke at him. "Just remember, we're your friends and we love you. Hell, in six months you'll be my brother in law. You're family, Greg." John smiled gently, and Greg nodded.

  
"Yeah, blimey that's not far away now is it. Pink suit okay? Brings out my eyes." Greg grinned, changing the subject none to subtley. Dragging himself to his feet, Greg left the comfort of Sherlock and John's sofa, heading for the door. "Thanks for having me, mate." Greg said, a little too quietly, before rushing out fast enough to make anyone think he was being chased. Battling with the stairs, Greg took the blasted things two at a time before he reached the bottom, throwing open the front door, racing onto the street. When the crisp London air hit his face, the panic that he'd bottled up in hopes of saving face flew out like the cork on a champagne bottle, and he fumbled for his phone.  
I'm so not okay. GL

  
It took too long to send such a short message, but he blamed it on the fact that he was walking down Baker street at an absurdly fast pace, and wasn't watching what he was doing. It had nothing to do with the giant, full blown panic attack he was fighting a losing battle with, and in broad daylight to boot. It was only a few minutes before a sleek black car had slowed down to match his speed, hovering beside him. It stopped, and the door opened, and inside was his knight in shining three piece suit. "In you get." Mycroft smiled, and Gregory obeyed, practically falling into the younger man's arms. "Breathe, Gregory. Not optional."

  
"M'breathing." Greg huffed into the man's lapel, his face buried as Mycroft wrapped his arms around his husband, rubbing his back in an attempt to calm him down.

  
"You're hyperventilating, that doesn't count." Mycroft murmured, kissing Greg's forehead softly, doing whatever he could to send the panic packing. "I've got you now, Greg." Mycroft whispered, and Greg nodded, wanting nothing more than to be at home in their big, comfortable, safe bed. "There's a good boy, nice and slow. That's the way." Mycroft praised, in a saccharin tone, but it wasn't condescending in any way, comforting rather. "We're nearly there, nearly home. Just calm down, and we'll get you home soon."

  
"I'm fine, perfectly fine." Greg murmured, fully intending to sound fine to match, but it came out as more of a strangled whimper. "I mean it, I'll be fine." Greg sighed in defeat, as the car pulled up outside their townhouse. "But I don't know how well my legs are going to work." He muttered softly, ashamed of himself.  
Greg's legs, as suspected, were about as good as jelly, and he'd have been utterly fucked if Mycroft hadn't swooped in and saved him as he always did. It took a bit longer than normal, but eventually they got inside, and Mycroft had him tucked up in bed as promised.

 

"There we are, now you need to rest." Mycroft murmured, perching on the edge of the bed, his hand clasped in Greg's. Though he wanted to pitch a fight, Greg was exhausted, completely drained, and was having a hard time staying awake. "I'll make some tea, and I'll be right back. Rest."

  
Just awake enough to realise what was happening, Greg grapsed Mycroft's wrist tightly, fear written all over his face, plain as day in the afternoon sun that streamed in through the bedroom window. "Stay. Please 'Myc, stay." Greg begged, and Mycroft had no choice but to stay with him.

"I'm not going anywhere, darling. Go to sleep, I'll be right beside you." Mycroft murmured, petting his husband's hair trailing his fingers over his face in an attempt to send him off to sleep. "It's alright now, love. I'm here, not leaving." He assured the man, laying down beside Greg, on top of the covers. It wasn't long before the grip on his wrist went slack, and Greg's breathing evened out, and he was cast deep into what Mycroft prayed would be a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry for the god awful formatting! I had to do this on my phone as my Internet has been down for two days. As soon as I can access the Internet from a computer I'm going to fix it. Thank you for reading! I'll have the next chapter up soon hopefully.


End file.
